Colin Dexter - Last Bus To Woodstock

'Yes, sir?'

"We need some arc-lamps.'

'It would help, I suppose, sir.'

'Get some.'

'Me, sir?'

'Yes, you!'

'Where shall I get. .?'

'How the hell do I know,' bellowed Morse.

By a quarter to midnight Lewis had finished his task and he reported to Morse, who was sitting with The Times in the manager's office, drinking what looked very much like whisky.

'Ah Lewis.' He thrust the paper across. 'Have a look at 14 down. Appropriate eh?' Lewis looked at 14 down: Take in bachelor? It could do (3). He saw what Morse had written into the completed diagram: BRA. What was he supposed to say? He had never worked with Morse before.

'Good clue, don't you think?'

Lewis, who had occasionally managed the Daily Mirror coffee-time crossword was out of his depth, and felt much puzzled.

'I'm afraid I'm not very hot on crosswords, sir.'

' "Bachelor" — that's BA and "take" is the letter "r"; recipe in Latin. Did you never do any Latin?'

"No, sir.'

'Do you think I'm wasting your time, Lewis?'

Lewis was nobody's fool and was a man of some honesty and integrity. 'Yes, sir.'

An engaging smile crept across Morse's mouth. He thought they would get on well together.

'Lewis, I want you to work with me on this case.' The sergeant looked straight at Morse and into the hard, grey eyes. He heard himself say he would be delighted.

'This calls for a celebration,' said Morse. 'Landlord!' West-brook had been hovering outside and came in smartly. 'A double whisky.' Morse pushed his glass forward.

'Would you like a drink, sir?' The manager turned hesitantly to Lewis.

'Sergeant Lewis is on duty, Mr. Westbrook.'

When the manager returned, Morse asked him to assemble everyone on the premises, including staff, in the largest room available, and drinking his whisky in complete silence, skimmed through the remaining pages of the newspaper.

'Do you read The Times , Lewis?'

"No, sir; we take the Mirror .' It seemed a rather sad admission.

'So do I sometimes,' said Morse.

At a quarter past midnight Morse came into the restaurant-room where everyone was now gathered. Gaye's eyes met and held his briefly as he entered, and she felt a strong compulsion about the man. It was not so much that he seemed mentally to be undressing her, as most of the men she knew, but as if he had already done so. She listened to him with interest as he spoke.

He thanked them all for their patience and co-operation. It was getting very late and he didn't intend to keep them there any longer. They would now know why the police were there. There had been a murder in the courtyard — a young girl with blonde hair. They would appreciate that all the cars in the courtyard must stay where they were until the morning. He knew this meant that some of them would have difficulty getting home, but taxis had been ordered. If anyone wished to report to him or to Sergeant Lewis anything at all which might be of interest or value to the inquiry, however unimportant it might seem, would such a person please stay behind. The rest could go.

To Gaye it seemed an uninspired performance. Happening to be on the scene of a murder ought surely to be a bit more exciting than this? She would go home now, where her mother and her young son would be fast asleep. And even if they weren't, she couldn't tell them much, could she? Already the police had been there over an hour and a half. It wasn't exactly what she'd come to expect from her reading of Holmes or Poirot, who by this time would doubtless have interviewed the chief suspects, and made some startling deductions from the most trivial phenomena.

The murmuring which followed the end of Morse's brief address died away as most of the customers collected their coats and moved off. Gaye rose, too. Had she seen anything of interest or value? She thought back on the evening. There was, of course, the young man who had found the girl. . She had seen him before, but she couldn't quite remember who it was he'd been with, or when. And then she had it — blonde hair! She'd been in the lounge with him only last week. But a lot of girls these days peroxided their hair. Perhaps it was worth mentioning? She decided it was and walked up to Morse.

'You said the girl who has been murdered had blonde hair.' Morse looked at her and slowly nodded. 'I think she was here last week — she was with the man who found her body tonight. I saw them here. I work in the lounge.'

'That's very interesting, Miss — er?

'Mrs. Mrs. McFee.'

'Please forgive me, Mrs. McFee. I thought you might have been wearing all those rings to frighten off the boys who come to drool at you over the counter.'

Gaye felt very angry. He was a hateful man. 'Look, Inspector whatever your name is, I came to tell you something I thought might be helpful. If you're going. .'

'Mrs. McFee,' broke in Morse gently, looking at her with an open nakedness in his eyes, 'if I lived anywhere near, I'd come in myself and drool over you every night of the week.'

At just after 1.00 a.m. a primitive, if reasonably effective, relay of arc-lamps was fixed around the courtyard. Morse had instructed Lewis to detain the young man who had found the murdered girl until they had taken the opportunity of investigating the courtyard more closely. The two men now surveyed the scene before them. There was a great deal of blood, and as Sergeant Lewis looked down on her, he felt a deep revulsion against the violence and senselessness of murder. Morse appeared more interested in the starry heavens above.

'Do you study the stars, Lewis?'

'I read the horoscopes sometimes, sir.'

Morse appeared not to hear. 'I once heard of a group of schoolchildren, Lewis, who tried to collect a million match-sticks. After they'd filled the whole of the school premises, they decided they'd have to pack it up.' Lewis thought it his duty to say something, but all appropriate comment eluded him.

After a while, Morse reverted his attention to more terrestrial things, and the two of them looked down again at the murdered girl. The spanner and the solitary white button lay where Morse had seen them earlier. There was nothing much else to see but for the trail of dried blood that led almost from one end of the back wall to the other.

The young man sat in the manager's office. His mother, though expecting him to be late, would be getting worried; and so was he. Morse finally came in at 1.30 a.m. whilst the police surgeon, the photographers and the fingerprint men busied themselves about the courtyard.

"Name?' he asked.

'Sanders, John Sanders.'

'You found the body?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Tell me about it.'

'There's not much to tell really.'

Morse smiled. 'Then we needn't keep you long, need we, Mr. Sanders?'

The young man fidgeted. Morse sat opposite him, looked him hard in the eye and waited. 'Well, I just walked into the courtyard and there she was. I didn't touch her, but I knew she was dead. I came straight back in to tell the manager.'

Morse nodded. 'Anything else?'

'Don't think so.'

'When were you sick, Mr. Sanders?'

'Oh yes. I was sick.'

'Was it after or before you saw the girl?'

'After. It must have upset me seeing her there — sort of shock, I suppose.'

'Why don't you tell me the truth?'

'What do you mean?'

Morse sighed. 'You haven't got your car here have you?'

'I haven't got a car.'

'Do you usually have a stroll round the courtyard before you go home?' Sanders said nothing. 'How much drink did you have tonight?'

'A few whiskies — I wasn't drunk.'

'Mr. Sanders, do you want me to find out from someone else?' It was clear from Sanders's manner that he hardly welcomed an inquiry along such lines. What time did you come here?' continued Morse.